Rivers and Roads
by SquintSquad17
Summary: "Are we going to talk about it now?" Nikita's voice rasps around the words, her throat hoarse from the silence that's settled heavily between them.  And from the stranglehold a Division agent had her in earlier, but she's not thinking about that.  N/M


**A/N**: I started watching _Nikita _on a whim and am now completely addicted. (I blame my adolescent love of Shane West on _E.R._) Anyway, this is in a similar style as an _NCIS _fic I wrote—hopefully the fragmentation works all right here! This is set in some nebulous time after Season 1. Review if you make it to the end!

**-x-**

"Are we going to talk about it now?" Nikita's voice rasps around the words a little, her throat hoarse from the strained silence that's settled heavily between them. (And from the stranglehold a Division agent had her in earlier, but she's not thinking about that.)

"We're almost out of time. She'll get here soon."

"That's not what I meant."

Michael doesn't answer immediately, and she knows he's weighing each word until he finds the perfect ones.

While she waits, Nikita tries not to think about the pain in her leg and instead focuses on the strand of hair that's tickling her nose; she would give almost anything to be able to push it out of the way. Unfortunately, her hands—much like her feet—are bound tightly with rope that chafes and burns every time she tries to move.

Finally, from his spot across from her, Michael says, "That would depend."

She makes a soft sound of annoyance; of course he'd try to delay the conversation by sidestepping. "On what?"

"On how difficult you're going to be." There's a touch of impatience to his voice now, and she knows better than to push him.

She does it anyway. "Because _I'm_ the problem here, is that it?"

"_Nikita_…"

"You shouldn't have done it, Michael," she snaps. She wishes they weren't in complete darkness so that she could see him. She can feel his presence, knows that he's tied to a chair that's directly across from her, but it's not the same.

Michael inhales sharply, and Nikita thinks he's going to continue the argument. Instead, he sighs, his anger leaving him a small whoosh. "It's already happened," he says, "so there's no use fighting. Not now."

He's right, she knows. They should be trying to plan; they should be thinking of a way to escape. (Except, of course, that there's no way out; they both already know that.)

"Sorry," she says finally. The rare apology hangs between them, stealing the space away from the heavy silence.

**-x-**

It should have been an easy mission. Looking back, that probably should have been the first sign that something would go wrong. It's always the ops that seem simple that completely devolve into chaos.

They were supposed to be intercepting the transport of a prisoner, one who supposedly had information on the location of one of the black boxes. One who supposedly was only being guarding by two Division men. Instead, they'd been met with ten more agents than they'd been expecting and no way out.

They put up a good fight, but they couldn't top twelve to two odds and a lucky shot from a man Nikita thought was named Eli.

And so they'd been taken to a nearby building under Division control—moving them back to headquarters would only have given them more chances to escape. Nikita knew the men who were guarding the room they were locked in had wanted to pull the final trigger themselves, but Nikita and Michael's executions had been stayed only so they could be carried out by someone else.

Amanda, they had said, would be there soon.

**-x-**

"How's your leg?"

She shrugs, although she knows the gesture is lost in the darkness. With an effort to keep her voice even, she says, "I've had worse, Michael."

Not by much, though, she thinks. It wasn't a clean shot, and it's only by pure luck that the bullet lodged in her left thigh didn't nick her femoral artery. There's still a lot of blood. There's still not much help for her.

"That's not what I was asking."

"I know," she snaps. Then, picturing his scowl, she adds in a softer tone, "I'll be fine."

Michael laughs sharply, humorlessly. "You'd better be. I don't want to be Birkhoff's only roommate."

She hears the slight catch in his voice and makes a valiant attempt to ignore the concern that he's trying to keep at bay. There's no room for emotion here. Nikita swallows a laugh as she thinks that there's barely even room for the two of them.

**-x-**

"Alex knows we're here," she says later, more to fill the silence than anything else.

"No," Michael corrects, "she knows we were _supposed_ to be five miles north of here, trying to intercept Amelia Leonard. There was never anything about being captured and sent to a Division holding cell in the plan."

"Always so concerned with details," Nikita mutters. There's a short pause before she adds, "She'll come looking now that we've missed the check-in."

"She won't make it before Amanda gets here."

"Birkhoff, then. Alex might have gotten word to Birkhoff—he'll be able to do something." Exactly what, she's not sure, but she wants to keep believing. For now, at least.

"I'd never have pegged you for an optimist."

"Someone's got—" Nikita pauses here to take a breath, a sharp inhale. It's getting harder and harder to keep the dizziness from overtaking her completely, and the pain in her leg has only gotten worse. "Someone's got to make up for your seriousness."

Michael's only response is to return to sliding the rope around his wrists up and down against the sharp edge of the chair.

**-x-**

Here is what she wanted to talk about—

The contingency plan is always to get out. If one of them is caught and the other can still get out, the first is left behind.

Michael didn't follow the contingency plan. Nikita was shot, Nikita was down, Nikita was captured. Michael turned around and let himself be caught, too.

And now they are both here.

"You shouldn't have done it," she rasps at him. Her voice would be inaudible, if not for the absolute silence of the room. "You don't need to—" She stops.

_You don't need to die, too._

"Nikita?" he says. "Shut up."

**-x-**

Her breath is coming in sharper and sharper gasps. She's light-headed and dizzy, and the metallic taste of blood that's coating her mouth is just another reminder that things are getting more desperate.

"Hang in there," Michael tells her, and Nikita knows a _please _is in there somewhere.

"Trying to."

"We're going to make it out of here."

"Now who's—" She coughs. "Now who's the optimist?"

He doesn't answer for a moment, and Nikita thinks that maybe he's resigning himself to what's undoubtedly going to be their fate. Then, he shifts in his chair. His foot bumps hers, and the little bit of contact is enough to make her smile.

"Nikita," he says, voice serious, "we're going to get out of here."

She wants to point out that he's lying; he's even stopped trying to fray the rope on the chair. She also wants to point out that she's not going to make it until Amanda gets here. Michael will have to face her alone.

Nikita tries hard not to picture him waiting in this dark, dark room with her lifeless body. (It doesn't work.)

**-x-**

"_Nikita!_" Michael's voice is sharp and loud.

She has no idea how he knew her eyes had closed, but he did. With Herculean effort, she opens them again. Not like it matters—there's nothing to see either way.

"I'm sorry," she says, and hopes he knows what she's apologizing for.

"Don't be," Michael tells her. "It was my choice."

"Sorry," she says again.

And then her eyes close, and she thinks that it must be Michael saying her name, but she can't remember what she's supposed to do and everything hurts and Amanda is only going to kill her anyway and she is just so _damn _tired and her eyelids so _damn _heavy that she can't find the energy to open them this time.

**-x-**

The next thing she knows is white light. The brightness hurts her eyes, and she misses the darkness from earlier. Nikita thinks she must be dead and wonders whether she's in hell. Wonders whether you can ever truly atone for sins like hers.

And then the waves of sound wash over her.

An explosion. A shout. A scrape of a chair.

Michael's voice. She tries to focus on the words, but can't distinguish any. _Stay, _she thinks she hears. _Don't._

She wants to call out to him, but her mouth won't move and she still can't see him.

The darkness comes back and takes her away once more.

**-x-**

Later, when the white light returns, it's faded. The sounds are still there: a slow, steady beep; a soft buzzing sound; a muffled cloud of voices that seems to belong to another room.

But most of all there is Michael. "Birkhoff came through," he is telling her. "You were right." A pause. "As always."

He keeps talking, his voice low and steady. She listens, and slowly she begins to see blurry colors, a speckled ceiling, a glimpse of what looks like an IV on her arm.

But most of all there is Michael. Michael, sitting next to her with new stitches over his right eye. Michael, whose words trail off when when he realizes she is awake. She wants to say something, but settles for squeezing his hand. He murmurs her name, a benediction, and leans down to brush a light kiss against her forehead.

She is alive for now, and that is enough.


End file.
